these in the recycling,” she says.
Neisha’s next to me in the doorway, pushing past.
“I’d better go,” she says.
“No,” I say, “no, not now. Please. Please stay.”
I reach out and put my hand on her arm, and she flinches.
A set of dull gray bruises on the soft part of her arm, between her wrist and elbow. She thinks I haven’t seen, but I have.
“He shouldn’t do that to you.”
She looks away. I reach out and take her hand in mine. It’s soft and warm.
“I would never, ever hurt you, Neisha.”
I move my hand away, but I follow her to the door. Mum stands and watches us, magazines in hand. It’s raining, a soft, soundless drizzle drifting about in the air. It’s not much, but it’s enough to set butterflies going in my stomach. Neisha pauses on the front step. She turns her collar up around her neck. I stand next to her and pull the door shut behind me.
“She heard,” she says.
“Yeah, I think so. I’ll talk to her.”
“God, what a mess.”
“It’ll be all right,” I say, but my words sound empty and foolish.
The concrete walls and walkway look grayer than ever in the rain. A drip from the ledge hits my hand, and someone, something, flits across the far end of the walkway, near the top of the stairs. I pull my arms in close to my body, flatten myself against the door.
“What are you doing?” Neisha says. “Are you hiding?”
“No. No, ’course not.”
I want to tell her, I really do. But not yet.
She looks over her shoulder.
“Is someone there?”
“No, there’s no one.”
She checks behind her again. I guess if you’re not used to it, it would feel threatening around here.
“Will you walk me to the end?” she says. She’s looking at me, waiting.
“Sure,” I say, and I step out from under the canopy. The rain is so light it’s hardly there at all. There are no sudden movements, no voices in my ear, and my fear starts subsiding. Neisha links her arm through mine and, even through her coat, I’m aware of her warmth.
“I’ll walk you home, shall I?” I say.
She looks across at me.
“You’d better stay and talk to your mum,” she says.
“But we need to talk, you and me,” I say.
“I know,” she says, “and we will, but we need to know how much she heard, what she’s going to do. She could go to the police, couldn’t she? You could be in trouble.”
I shrug. “I dunno. I don’t think it’s likely. If she heard what he did to you, I reckon she’ll keep quiet. It happened to her, see. Not Rob, our dad. He hurt her. It’s how she lost the end of her finger. I was defending you in the lake, trying to protect you, so I don’t think she’ll tell.” We’re nearly at the end of the walkway.The rain is so soft I hardly notice it, but my face and neck and hands are moist. “Neisha, why did you tell the police what you did? That we were just larking about? Why didn’t you tell them the truth?”
“I was scared of you. You persuaded me to meet him. I thought you were in it together. I thought you’d come after me if I said anything.”
I feel like someone’s scooped out my insides. The thought of her being scared of me — I can’t stand it.
“And I’d have had to tell everything,” she says, “everything I just told you. I just couldn’t do it.”
“I don’t understand. You didn’t do anything wrong. He hurt you. You were trying to protect yourself.”
“It sounds so simple when you say it like that. It’s not simple when you’re in the middle of it. It feels like … like it’s your fault. And you feel … ashamed.”
She looks away. I stop walking and put my hand on her other arm, gently turning her to face me. She still won’t look me in the eye.
“It wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault. My God, Neisha …”
I want to put my arms around her. I want to draw her close.
There’s something pale in the stairwell. It’s blurry, indistinct, just a suggestion of a shape.
I freeze.
It’s coming out of
Neisha’s next to me in the doorway, pushing past.
“I’d better go,” she says.
“No,” I say, “no, not now. Please. Please stay.”
I reach out and put my hand on her arm, and she flinches.
A set of dull gray bruises on the soft part of her arm, between her wrist and elbow. She thinks I haven’t seen, but I have.
“He shouldn’t do that to you.”
She looks away. I reach out and take her hand in mine. It’s soft and warm.
“I would never, ever hurt you, Neisha.”
I move my hand away, but I follow her to the door. Mum stands and watches us, magazines in hand. It’s raining, a soft, soundless drizzle drifting about in the air. It’s not much, but it’s enough to set butterflies going in my stomach. Neisha pauses on the front step. She turns her collar up around her neck. I stand next to her and pull the door shut behind me.
“She heard,” she says.
“Yeah, I think so. I’ll talk to her.”
“God, what a mess.”
“It’ll be all right,” I say, but my words sound empty and foolish.
The concrete walls and walkway look grayer than ever in the rain. A drip from the ledge hits my hand, and someone, something, flits across the far end of the walkway, near the top of the stairs. I pull my arms in close to my body, flatten myself against the door.
“What are you doing?” Neisha says. “Are you hiding?”
“No. No, ’course not.”
I want to tell her, I really do. But not yet.
She looks over her shoulder.
“Is someone there?”
“No, there’s no one.”
She checks behind her again. I guess if you’re not used to it, it would feel threatening around here.
“Will you walk me to the end?” she says. She’s looking at me, waiting.
“Sure,” I say, and I step out from under the canopy. The rain is so light it’s hardly there at all. There are no sudden movements, no voices in my ear, and my fear starts subsiding. Neisha links her arm through mine and, even through her coat, I’m aware of her warmth.
“I’ll walk you home, shall I?” I say.
She looks across at me.
“You’d better stay and talk to your mum,” she says.
“But we need to talk, you and me,” I say.
“I know,” she says, “and we will, but we need to know how much she heard, what she’s going to do. She could go to the police, couldn’t she? You could be in trouble.”
I shrug. “I dunno. I don’t think it’s likely. If she heard what he did to you, I reckon she’ll keep quiet. It happened to her, see. Not Rob, our dad. He hurt her. It’s how she lost the end of her finger. I was defending you in the lake, trying to protect you, so I don’t think she’ll tell.” We’re nearly at the end of the walkway.The rain is so soft I hardly notice it, but my face and neck and hands are moist. “Neisha, why did you tell the police what you did? That we were just larking about? Why didn’t you tell them the truth?”
“I was scared of you. You persuaded me to meet him. I thought you were in it together. I thought you’d come after me if I said anything.”
I feel like someone’s scooped out my insides. The thought of her being scared of me — I can’t stand it.
“And I’d have had to tell everything,” she says, “everything I just told you. I just couldn’t do it.”
“I don’t understand. You didn’t do anything wrong. He hurt you. You were trying to protect yourself.”
“It sounds so simple when you say it like that. It’s not simple when you’re in the middle of it. It feels like … like it’s your fault. And you feel … ashamed.”
She looks away. I stop walking and put my hand on her other arm, gently turning her to face me. She still won’t look me in the eye.
“It wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault. My God, Neisha …”
I want to put my arms around her. I want to draw her close.
There’s something pale in the stairwell. It’s blurry, indistinct, just a suggestion of a shape.
I freeze.
It’s coming out of
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